Lines of Three
by CherFleur
Summary: Sidestory to The Number Six. This is how Hisagi came to have Ulquirra and take care of him. Mentions of abuse and other adult themes. Possibly gonna be a two-shot, dunno yet.
1. Lonely Kindness

Set 14 months before the beginning of _The Number Six_. This is how Hisagi came to have Ulquiorra.

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He was vaguely aware that he shouldn't have still been working when all of his colleagues had gone, and the only people left in the building with him were the janitorial staff. That'd never bothered him before, and it still didn't. The only thing which he was acutely aware of was the comforting _scritch-scritch_ of his light penciling on the paper as he drew another outline for his clothes line. His thin, long fingered artist's hands were smudged with both graphite and ink from his finishing pen, and his starter pencil. Carefully turning the paper so that his desk light focused on his lines more, he tilted his head to the side and frowned when he needed to rub his heavy, wet ash colored eyes with the back of his wrists – avoiding using his hands out of habit – before reaching for his lukewarm coffee.

_Maybe I should think about calling it a night soon_, he thought, placing his mug back into its exact watermark ring with a grimace at the stale taste in his mouth.

A glance at the clock caused him to wince sharply.

11:40 p.m. The company really only worked until 9:30-10:00, depending on whether or not they were working with deadlines or not.

_Ah, I did it again._

Holding off the urge to run his hands back through his black hair, he stood to wash his hands. The small things he remembered to do for himself paid off at times, such as when he breathed in the smell of his honey and lemon scented hand soap, letting his tensed body relax the slightest bit as he massaged the soap into his aching hands. Taking careful precautions with a slightly ripped cuticle, he let loose a deep, long sigh as the hot water heated his chilled hands beautifully.

Once he was finished, he turned and began to gather his things, putting all of his art equipment just where it belonged in each case, and shifting his pencils so that the ends all lined up. He cleaned his coffee mug, dried it, and put it away for the next day and washed off the sink and counter, as well as his work table, before he felt that his workroom was in proper condition. Throwing on his well-worn jacket and tucking his art folder securely into his shoulder back, as well as his art utensils case, he shut off the light and left.

It was chilly out, and the thin overworked designer shivered, stuffing his moneymaking, careful hands into his soft, warm pockets.

As a shiver rolled over his thin, lean frame, he noted a dark lump on the snow powdered sidewalk, the lights from the street shops putting it into sharp relief. Pausing with an odd apprehension blooming in his chest, the man smoothly walked over to the out of place shape only to halt his stride in shock.

It was a child.

He couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old, curled in on himself, green eyes dull and half lidded from exhaustion, cheeks sallow and sunken. Trailing down those shadowed features were two scars with an odd green hue to them, directly beneath his eyes to his jaw. The small, frighteningly skinny form was shivering almost spastically, his entire frame speaking of resignation to his sad, tiny, cold fate. Matted black hair looked stiff in the iridescent light of the shops, and the man couldn't help but feel a desperate kinship to the frail creature. Dressed in dirty, torn clothes that couldn't pass for rags, his visible limbs were knobby and sharp, skin pale and sickly.

How could someone just walk by a sight such as this?

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It burned, the heat coming off of the store window, and if he'd had the ability to cry, he'd have done so. The burning hurt, but not as much as he thought death would; that was something to fear, although logically, he didn't understand the concept of it. Would he cease to exist? Or would he just transfer his energy to a different place?

His small frame didn't really feel the cold anymore, and he didn't comprehend his shivering in the least.

_Will it end soon?_ He wondered idly, chattering teeth causing a dull ache to form in his lethargic system. _Will I be free from them now?_

Without understanding why, he looked up and found awareness in deep grey eyes as a lean, tired looking man knelt in front of him, studying him. In turn, he took in the fact that he didn't know this face with some relief.

Three vertical scars covered the right side of his face, starting beneath his spiky black hair and going over his weary, kind eyes to end at his jaw line. From his outer cheekbone, end hidden by the ends of his hair, 'til over the bridge of his nose was a white-ish grey strip, highlighting the gothic 69 tattooed just under it on his cheek. There were tired lines around his warm eyes, and around his narrowed lips as well, the bruises from sleep deprivation were quite visible the more that the hollow feeling boy stared into the depths.

His frame was just on the verge of being too thin, and his smooth, creamy skin enhanced the play of his lean musculature as he shifted onto his knees from his kneeling position.

The two just stared at each other a moment, before the man with the kind, tired eyes removed his satchel. Placing it carefully in front of him, between the boy and himself, he pulled off his jacket, keeping his eyes on those dull green hues as he slowly settled it onto the near-broken boy's shoulders. Heat encircled the abused frame and the green-eyed boy found himself gasping lightly at the sensation of melting apart and burning at the same time.

His skin _ached_.

In the process of trying to decide whether or not the feeling of dying and being brought to life at the same time was a pleasant one, he didn't notice that he was lifted into the man's thin, strong arms. His bones felt like they were expanding inside of him as the sudden change in temperature, and he heard himself gasping softly into the soft, warm material. There was a burning sensation behind his nose and eyes, one that didn't feel like it was going to kill him, and a tightening in his throat that squeezed a low whine from within him.

There was a steady rhythm beneath his cheek, and the cheek that absorbed the vibration was getting warmer and warmer. He didn't think he'd ever heard music that felt so _nice_ and so _warm_. It was as if the soft drumming was encouraging him to endure the hot pain and the piercing cold that threatened to tear his pale skin from his prominent frame. The swaying motion that was accompanying the comforting notes and beat caused his tensed body to relax, his shivering to lessen to the occasional tremble.

Jingling met his dulled hearing and he suddenly realized that his eyes were closed, that his lids felt so heavy that he couldn't have opened them to save his life. _Maybe it's better that I don't open them_, he thought muggily, burrowing closer to that wonderful rhythm that warmed his face and blood. _Maybe this is what dying is. If it is, it's not so bad. I almost like it._

Before he was ready, he felt that soft heat that encased him being removed, that steady rhythm drifting away and he felt himself moue in protest.

"Nnnn…" he managed when what he meant to say was _No, don't go._

"Hush," a soft, deep voice murmured comfortingly and he was drawn into that comforting song again.

Sighing, he again burrowed farther into the recess of heat that surrounded him, wondering idly as to when he'd been surrounded by an even larger cocoon of heat. He'd never complain about it, and he was quietly appreciative of the tightened feel of the warmth that encircled him, of the slightly faster pace of the song, just before it slowed.

It was nice.

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When he woke, it was to find that the little boy that he'd taken home with him the night before had dug himself even tighter against him, and was almost completely curled up under one of his favorite comforters. He could barely spot the top of his dark, dirty head, and he felt his heart clench at the sight of crusted blood in the black strands. Hopefully, it wasn't anything serious, as the boy didn't have any freely bleeding wounds.

After he cleaned him up, he'd know for certain the extent of the boy's condition.

Glancing at his alarm clock, he noted that it was 5:00 a.m. without surprise; he woke up at the same time just about every day.

However, as he made to move, the boy in his arms made the most pitiful whining noise and he conceded with a soft sigh to lie beside the child for a while longer, before he'd really have to get up. So as he lay there, absently running his artist's hand over the boy's thin back – able to feel every single rib – he went over what all he'd have to do that day.

Obviously, he'd have to call in to work, and he was sure that there would be a few murmurs about his not showing up, but he'd work on his designs some more when he'd cleaned up the child, called in a favor to a doctor he knew, and figured out exactly what he was going to do with the boy, depending on his situation. It was blaringly clear that the boy couldn't return to wherever it was that he'd come from, but he wasn't sure as to how the child would react to multiple changes at a time.

He'd just have to wait and see.

Looking over at the clock through a muzzy haze, he was surprised to find that almost two hours had passed; he really should call in to work. Then he remembered that he was the only one who was ever there this early and sighed. It looked like he wouldn't need to call in after all, or at least, not for a long while. The rest of the crew wouldn't be in until at least 9:00. Sometimes he even worried himself with how much he relied on his work to hold off the impending storm of emotions that would threaten him should he let himself think of something lightly.

With one last gentle stroke to the frail form before him, he slid his still fully clothed body from the sheets, internally thinking that he'd have to wash them before they were due because of this little event.

The tiny body shivered for a moment before curling tighter beneath the comforter and the designer gently tucked it firmly beneath the boy. No need for him to get cold whilst he was away, and hopefully he wouldn't wake before he got back; he really didn't want to have to deal with the child going into a full-blown panic.

Treading silently and carefully through his room, he grabbed one of his plain T-shirts, a pair of comfortable old jogging sweats, and some boxers. Since he hadn't been able to take his shower the night before, he'd just have to make do with his interrupted schedule and wing it until he could get back on track. He passed pictures and sculptures done by colleagues and old friends on the way, some eccentric, others uniform. All of which he had always paid little mind, only hanging them because it'd felt rude to do otherwise and just lock them up in one of his extra rooms. It would never do to insult someone unduly.

As the hot water pounded into his aching muscles, he hung his head, relaxing with a deep sigh as he planned out what he would make for the child and himself to eat for breakfast. As he soaped up a washcloth with Spice and Herb soap – one of the woman at work had made it for him, and he hadn't thought to say no to it, and he even liked it – he heard the bathroom door open and he glanced around the opaque shower stall glass and noted the child standing just inside the doorway, wrapped in the comforter. Those dull emerald eyes held a smidgen of confusion as to why he was there in the man's abode, his frame small was hunched beneath the feather filled comforter, brows slightly scrunched and mouth down turned.

"Ah," he blinked at the child in bemusement. "You're awake."

Focusing his gaze on the man in the shower, whose head was the only thing he could see clearly, he saw the kind eyed man with the tattoos and scars from the night before.

The warm man who'd played him that comforting, pretty song.

"Hai," the voice was soft and monotone.

Uncomfortable silence, the only sound the water as it sprayed over half of the man's body, and onto the tiles of the shower wall.

"Would you like me to make you some breakfast?" the man finally asked politely, wishing fervently for more experience with any form of young.

The hunched figure regarded him for a moment, nodding his head ever-so slightly in acknowledgement; it would have been comical, the small, messy head of dark hair shifting amidst the white of the puffy comforter in which he'd cocooned himself, if the boy hadn't looked so broken and resigned to a fate that the man had no understanding of.

"Well, then," he continued, feeling his brows draw together in helplessness. "You can wait out in another room until I'm done if you like, then wash up yourself while I make us something to eat."

Again, the boy gave him that small nod before slowly backing to just outside the bathroom doorway and closing the door almost all the way, but the man could see the boy curled up in the comforter settling down next to the door. It appeared that he didn't want to venture too far from him.

With a sigh, the tired designer shook his head lightly before continuing to wash, quickly soaping up and scrubbing his body, then his short, thick dark hair. He rinsed thoroughly, if quickly, before reaching out for his towel on the bar on the other side of the shower stall door and wrapping it around his waist. When he stepped out, he blinked on noting that the boy was sitting just _inside _the door now, curled up and completely covered by the comforter, looking like a tiny ball of mushed white. _Oh dear, _he mused, frowning lightly with worry. _What has the boy so nervous?_

Deciding against making a comment on the boy's new positioning, he proceeded in drying off and getting dressed. After rubbing at his hair enough to conclude that the dampness would no longer drip onto his skin or shirt, he swiped his hand over his jaw, finding it smooth enough and clear enough in the mirror that he didn't feel the necessity of shaving that morning. Carefully opening the door to its fullest once again, he took in the fact that the little lump of white was shivering just the slightest bit. The kind eyed man couldn't help but wonder if it were due to fear or cold. Was the child so frightened of him? Or was it that his little body just couldn't retain its heat anymore?

Brows drawing together in worry, he knelt before the child, considering him a moment, before tapping ever so gently to ask for an audience with the scarred boy. He saw the comforter puff up as the thin body within it tensed for a moment, just before the emerald eyed child lifted his head, the comforter wrapped around his head like a hood, framing his pale, dirt smudged features in a way that accentuated the pallor of his skin and the emptiness of his expression and eyes.

"I'm finished in here now," he made sure to keep his voice low, soft and as unthreatening as possible but he was unable to get rid of the discomfort that shone through. He was glad that the boy relaxed despite this and studied the designer's features. "So you can bathe if you like."

That small nod and those half lidded eyes looked down for a moment, his small mouth opening slightly as if to speak, before closing solidly in denial of the act.

Bemusement crossed the tattooed man's face as he stood again, watching the boy's eyes stair at his shins from his position on the floor.

"My name is Hisagi Shuuhei, just call if you should need anything," he hesitated a moment, leaning out of the bathroom towards the linen closet beside the door to grab the boy a towel and placing it on the counter. "I'll just be in the other room then."

His foot had just made it across the threshold when he was stopped by a small hand just barely tugging on his sweat pants. Stopping, he looked down, seeing that a single shaky hand was pinching the material with just the tips of his fingers, and it would be quite simple just to ignore the child's grip and continue out the door. This thought, however, didn't even come to the dark haired man's mind as he backtracked and quietly knelt before the green eyed child anew.

"Yes?" he queried softly, watching carefully for any sign as to why he'd been stopped. "Is something the matter?"

The child's mouth opened again before he forced it shut, biting off and concealing any form of sound he'd been about to make. Green eyes glanced at the shower, then back at Hisagi in askance.

_Ah._

"Of course I'll assist you," he murmured, keeping his face neutral; the boy was already skittish enough, he didn't need to see the designer's small smile of understanding and take it wrong. "But only with the things you _wish_ assistance for."

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_Hisagi Shuuhei. _It sounded… nice.

The name was also familiar, but he couldn't quite name as to why. Perhaps Aizen-sama or Ichimaru-sama had mentioned him before? That thought didn't sit well with him, but he didn't get any bad feelings being around this man, so he doubted that they'd spoken of the man in _that_ way. His hands, which held the soft washcloth gently to his skin, were careful and never did he feel the other's skin touch his own, as if the man were trying to make this as impersonal as possible; for this the scarred boy was thankful. He hadn't a clue as to how he'd react if he were touched skin on skin at this point.

A few moments into the bathe the child had become aware that though the man seemed to take simple enjoyments from life, he was a stickler about cleanliness, which the hollow eyed child found himself appreciating in a way he hadn't appreciated anything before. If he were here, with this man, he had a feeling that he'd never be dirtier than a day's worth of grime, and if he got the urge, he would even wager that Hisagi would let him shower _twice _a day. The thought of it was rebellious in itself, as he'd not had a proper bath in he didn't know how long, and then Aizen-sama only saw fit to have him and the others washed when there was a customer that was asking for one of them, or when he had a job for them to do.

If he could be clean all the time, he didn't think he'd need much else.

He let himself sigh as he felt those gentle hands remove the cloth from his sensitive skin and handed the cloth over so that he could clean his front himself.

"Would you like me to wash your hair?" the boy thought about the soft query for a moment before giving his small, sharp, succinct nod. "Bear with me then, your hair is so knotted that this may hurt."

Small frame tensing suddenly and relaxing just as quickly, he let himself enjoy the slow lather and massage of the coconut scented shampoo into his sensitive scalp, the careful slide of fingers working at the larger, thicker nests in his black locks. Enjoying the subtle working of Hisagi's fingers through his hair, the green eyed boy began to doze slightly in the steamy, soapy bathwater in which he sat. He let the kindness in the designer's deep gray eyes lull him willingly into complacency, knowing that he'd probably regret this act of faith, but _feeling _that this man could be different, that the man was just as uncertain about the boy as the boy was about the man.

There were slight tugs every now and again, but none of them were so painful he couldn't continue to doze lightly in the warmth that surrounded and filled him in a most unfamiliar way. He'd never known such warmth before, and as he sat there he thought he could hear just the slightest sound of the man behind him humming under his breath while he carefully handled the tangled locks. The sound of the man's voice was pleasant and he found his tried body relaxing even further than it had before, his breath puffing coolly against his drawn up knees, arms wrapped around them to hold his body steady and upright as the man worked.

This proved that Hisagi was relaxing in the motions himself, he wasn't as tense as he'd been before, focused on the task before him in a way that the boy could appreciate and understand.

Most of all though, the scarred boy thought that the man's voice was nice, just like the song he'd produced the night before, and his name.

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Taking down the showerhead he gently rinsed the child's hair, careful of the knots he had yet to be able to untangle. With a moment's thought, he reached for the small container of conditioner that he rarely used, and only when he had an art show to go to and felt he had to look extremely primped. Hopefully, this would assist in his ability to untangle the surprisingly strong strands of the boy's potentially silky black hair.

During his cleaning of the boy's hair, he'd ignored the crusted blood as it wet and liquefied to drift pinkish-red over his hands to the best of his ability whilst surreptitiously searched for the wound it might have come from only to find the last vestiges of a scab and the soft pink of scar tissue a couple inches behind the thin boy's ear. His sigh of relief had interrupted the humming that he hadn't even noticed until that moment but continued as it didn't seem to bother the near asleep child before him.

His bathroom was set up in such a way that there was a shower _as well as_ a Jacuzzi tub in the room, next to each other in such accord that he barely had to move to get something from one or the other, his toilette tucked into the corner by the shelves which he had unthinkingly filled with candles and sculptures but hadn't really found it necessary to change the way it was set up; he liked the near clutter of the area, the one spot of chaos in his flat.

Seated on the edge of the tub as he was, he had a clear view of the purple-black bruises that were fading on the boys back and limbs, some looking much older with a greenish yellow tinge to them, a brown center that spoke of age and repetitive beatings, and the thin silvery scars that crisscrossed over his ribs and back. Every rib was visible, his spine a spindly branch coated in wounded bark, looking as if ready to stab those who came at him from behind. On the left side of his thin, near concave chest the number four was tattooed in black, a gothic style, contrasting harshly against his bone white skin –it was almost like a brand, the skin raised painfully – as well as a round scar – a perfect circle – just at his collarbone, about the size of Hisagi's fist, a little smaller.

_What in the world could that be from?_ He wondered, but knew that he didn't need an answer; it was just another part of the mysterious, silent child before him.

"Ah," he exclaimed softly, causing the boy to stir slightly, lifting his head and tipping it to muzzily glance at him in inquiry. "I've gotten all the terrible knots out of your hair. Time to rinse yourself, then get out, don't you think?"

Another of those considering nods had Hisagi smiling slightly as he carefully and thoroughly rinsed the conditioner from the frail boy's hair, placing the showerhead in its proper place in the shower stall before rising and grabbing the large, soft towel off the counter for the boy. Unfolding it and holding it out in front of him so that there would be a screen between two of them, giving the boy some semblance of privacy as he shakily stepped out of the Jacuzzi and onto the floor matt that kept Hisagi from falling on his face half the time. Once he was standing, Hisagi wrapped the child in the fluffy-soft towel that was more like a couch blanket for the small child rather than an everyday towel. Hopefully the amount of coverage would help the scarred boy to feel a bit more secure than if he were using a child-sized towel.

As the boy settled into the large towel that almost trailed at the floor, ending just above his feat, Hisagi spoke.

"Would you like me to dry your hair? Or trim it?"

The boy's hair was chunky and untamed and that just didn't fit well with the silent child's aura; he seemed much like Hisagi, enjoying order and distinction.

As the child continued to repeat the controlled motion, Hisagi just decided to think of it as The Nod and be done with it.

"Yes you'd like me to dry your hair or yes you'd like me to trim it?"

The Nod.

"Both?"

The Nod.

He couldn't repress a light chuckle. "Alright then."

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_It is extremely symmetrical_, the boy thought, staring at himself in the mirror, noting the way his hair shone in a way he wasn't used to, the slight fluttery, soft look of it as it framed his face and just barely skimmed the tops of his shoulders. His thin, angular features looked less haggard, less shadowed by grief and terror with his black locks falling softly, gleaming against features with eyes slightly wider than usual with shocked pleasure. The warmth of the previously used hairdryer had also been a pleasant surprise, the gentle heat of it massaging his thin skin and causing nice tingles throughout his thin, almost sickly form.

He liked it, it was very… clean.

The boy wished that he could thank the man, but couldn't find his voice to do so. When he wanted to it seemed he couldn't find his words to manage even the slightest of intelligible sounds of acknowledgement. Maybe –

"So, do you like it?"

Turning his face to regard the man wit his kind hands and soothing heartbeat he stopped halfway, gazing at his through his newfound locks fluttering ever-so softly with his breathes. Looking out through the dark fall, Hisagi Shuuhei's features were blurred, smudged with sorrow and a deep, lonely resignation. Those dark gray eyes were deep and dulled from behind the present he had just gifted upon the thin, unsure boy who'd lost his voice when there was an actual use for it.

He didn't like that look in those eyes.

Facing the other fully, he let his tensed features relax a smidgen and the ends of his lips curl just the slightest bit to show his appreciation. He was unaware that his harsh, haunted emerald eyes softened as well, his thin cheeks filling gradually with a light flush that brought light to his eyes and crinkled the corners just enough to let the other glimpse what could be a devastating expression if unleashed to its fullest.

This look clearly said _Thank you_.

"Well, if you're happy with it," Hisagi Shuuhei's voice was uncertain but warm; he'd not the best hand at this, but he felt he'd done a passable job this time. "Then you're welcome."

As they were still in the bathroom, the boy huddled under the blanket of a towel, it was quite simple for the man to clean up after the hair that'd fallen to the tiles once he'd cut it from the boy's now silken head. Emerald eyes watched the man as he worked, child's body sitting on a stool that the other had pulled from under the counter, telling the boy that he used it to change the light bulbs when they died so that he wouldn't have to go to another room and get one, or balance precariously on the counter.

He admitted to a slight fear of heights.

At the time, the child had been sure that the man had just been talking to try and reassure him and keep him calm, but watching the slim, lean back through his dampened Tshirt, a bit stiff as if unused to the company of other, he was sure that it was now because he'd been trying to reassure himself. It appeared that the other didn't have others over often.

Everything that the boy'd seen so far had shown clearly that the man lived alone and had for a very long time.

A _very _long time.

Once the other had thrown away the hair from the floor and put away the broom and dustpan, he turned to the boy who was studying him with an again stiffened and unyielding visage and quirked a slim brow at him in question. Lifting his hands slightly he hinted that he'd the wish to carry the boy somewhere, but wouldn't just pick him up without his permission.

Pausing to consider the offer, he tilted his head, enjoying and marveling at the smooth sensation of his hair brushing over his clean face as he did so, reminding him of what the other had done for him only moments before.

He'd never felt so… acknowledged before.

So, he gave his small, controlled nod, not noticing that the man repressed a smile and a bit of mirth in those deep gray eyes. He knew nothing of the man's internal naming of his one distinctive action of affirmation, that he found it quite endearing in a most platonic manner.

"Now," the other murmured, carefully scooping up his painfully thin form before leaving the bathroom and moving down the hall to a part of the flat that the child had yet to see. "We're going to find you something to wear."

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It was as clear as day that the child liked the room into which they entered quite a bit, half lidded eyes wide and small, severe mouth opened slightly in wonder at the array of colors that surrounded him in the designer's 'Creation Room'. Without thought – otherwise Hisagi was sure that he wouldn't have done so – the small child moved foreword and stroked a deep forest green swath of cloth, one that shifted both silver and black when the angle and light changed upon it. _Ah, _he let a smile fall across his smoothly neutral features at the sight. _Looks like I'll have to make something in that green for him then. _Continuing onward towards the next color, a simple white of bamboo cloth, one of the softest fabrics that the designer had gotten his hands on, and he started a mental list of what he'd make for the boy and with what, depending on the fabric rolls he approached and in what order.

The room was that of a tailor, rolls upon rolls of fine cloth and coarse cloth the colors in spectrum that some would never dream of. Thin plastic sheets covered the unopened fabric rolls, and small boxes filled with the new tools he would need for the cutting and such after his current ones dulled too much for a successful and satisfying cut. The room was the largest of the floor that he owned, encompassing the space of two of his bedrooms easily. Tables were scattered around strategically, unfinished works folded neatly on their prospective work tables, waiting to be completed.

"So," he was saddened that the sound of his voice startled the boy out of his wonder, causing green eyes to hood anew and lips to tighten in self denial. "Just pick what colors you like, then we'll look at some pictures so that you can pick what kind of style you'd like."

Head cocked slightly in puzzled consideration, the scarred boy shifted to rest his hand longingly on the white fabric again, tiny fingers petting it just the slightest bit in an unconscious appreciation for the delicacy of the bolt. It appeared to the designer, that he was being judged for reactions in accordance with whichever piece the boy traveled to, as the child moved around the room, only taking any considerable interest in the shifting green, bamboo white, and a pale shifting gray as well, this swath shifting from dark char gray to light sandy gray. It was an interesting selection, and the man was sure he would enjoy making the materials into something suitably comfortable for his temporary charge.

He hadn't enjoyed making something in a long time, and now he had someone specific to make it for.

"You keep looking," he told the child as a thought occurred to him. "I'll be right back."

After receiving The Nod from the boy, he left the room to the wondering emerald eyed child and made his way to the phone. Dialing in the number of the doctor who owed him a favor – Unohana Retsu – he waited for her to answer.

"Moshi-moshi?" her soft, pleasant voice answered. He could hear the scribbles in the background that told him that she was working on paperwork; he hated to disturb her but…

"Ohaiyo, Unohana-san," he murmured, feeling a bit uncertain about calling in this favor, as he hated the idea that she hadn't _really_ expected it to ever be called upon and therefore wouldn't come to his aide. "It's Hisagi Shuuhei."

"Ah, Hisagi-kun," the delighted pleasure in her calm voice let the designer release his tension; she wasn't upset. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Um, yes, actually," taking a deep breath and running his hand slowly back through his dark hair he pushed on despite his nervousness. "I'd like to call in that favor."

The sound of a writing utensil being put down as if she'd been startle, made him grimace; he hoped that she wasn't going to turn him down.

"Are you alright?"

"Nani? Oh, hai, hai, I'm fine," the slightest, immeasurable and unnoticed warmth bloomed in his chest at her concern. "There's someone else…"

"Yes? In what condition are they?" her voice was professional and steady. He could just picture her slightly lowered eyelids and the lowering of her brows.

Down to business.

"He's malnourished, bruised, and he hasn't spoken since I brought him home with me. Unohana-san," he hesitated, hoping that this wouldn't backfire on him for whatever reason. "He's a child, no more than 9 years old, I'd say."

Silence.

"I can't come out myself today, but I can send someone I trust over right away," Hisagi frowned at this, unsure of whether or not he wanted someone he didn't know in his home. "He'll be there within the hour."

"Unohana-san…"

"It's alright, Hisagi-kun," she soothed, sensing his discomfort at the thought of having a stranger in his home. "Szayel has the utmost practicality when it comes to younger patients, and he won't do anything I wouldn't do myself. He was taught by the best."

He took that as it was; she knew how good she was.

"I understand," he sighed. "His name, if you would?"

"Grantz Szayelapporo, although he prefers to be called Szayel and will most likely instruct you to do such," he could hear the frowned, constrained displeasure in her voice as she continued. "This child, describe his condition to me, will you?"

"He's got a lot of scars," he started haltingly, leaning back against the doorjamb that allowed him to look down the hallways to see the shadow of the green eyed boy as he continued to riffle through the swaths of cloth, Hisagi unknowingly ignorant of the fact that this was the most peaceful the other had ever felt before. "He appears to have been lashed," he could hear her speaking softly to someone on the other line, and scribbling something down quickly before the slightest click of a door closing. "With what I'm not sure, but there's a large scar just under his collar bone, about the size of my fist. He's been… tattooed with the number four on his chest, it's raised, swollen. He's got scars and cuts on his scalp, and I noticed some under and around his fingernails as well."

That scribbling continued on the other end of the line as Hisagi saw the boy who was still wrapped up in a towel peek his head out the doorway and down towards Hisagi, his head canting to the side inquiringly. Smiling in spite of himself he shook the phone a little and mouthed that it was important before gesturing in invitation to the boy that he could come over to him if he wished. In spite of the fact he knew instinctively that if the boy learned that the designer was conversing with a doctor on his behalf he'd balk and probably lose what little camaraderie had developed between the two, Hisagi also knew that the boy was uncertain of what was going on and needed the comfort another human body subconsciously provided.

Personal experiences informed him of this as well as a study of human habit.

Slowly, the hesitant, silent boy made his way toward the designer, studying him anew with those hollow emerald eyes before stopping a pace or two away. Close, but not too close.

_Well, _Hisagi mused slowly straightening and moving into the kitchen to get himself a glass of tea. _It looks like he's more comfortable with me than I thought._

It'd taken the man weeks to be able to approach his foster father – Muguruma Kensei – when he'd first been taken in by the other as a youth, and even then, he'd still felt his nerves etching deep when he'd get too close or somehow manage to touch the other in any form. Feeling the child close behind him made him wonder if maybe this boy – this scarred, and much worse off than he'd been child – was stronger than he'd been when he was several years older than the silent, pale shadow. He'd heard that the younger you were the more resilient and adaptive, but he didn't think that that was all it was; there was something about the thin, fragile adolescent that foreshadowed a strong and virile character that Hisagi'd never developed.

"Now," Unohana-san's soft, to-the-point voice almost startled the young man and he blinked as he set the teapot on the glass-plated electric stove. "As I said, Szayel will be there shortly. For now, make sure that the boy eats something, and try to get him to speak to you, alright?"

"Hai, Unohana-san, I understand," he pulled down several jars with tea leaves in them and placed them on the counter, turning them so that the labels were facing the silent boy who'd made himself at home on one of the kitchen stools by the small divider island opposite the stove. "I work on that. Arigato, Unohana-san."

"It's not a problem," he could hear the gentling warmth of kindness in her voice and felt the slightest smile work over his features; he wasn't sure if it were from witnessing the slight OCD tendency of the boy before him as he turned the jar's just-so and put them so-many centimeters apart, or from the fact that there was such honest care within her for him. "Well then, sayonara."

"De wa, saradaba."

Once he'd hit the end button, he turned to find a small, scarred hand pointing at the smooth Honey-Mint mix that he'd learned how to make from his elder foster brother, Shiba Kaien.

"You can read and write then?" he quiried, almost relieved when he received The Nod, as it showed that the child didn't feel that he had to withhold his knowledge from him so as to have a secret against him; Kami knew that he'd withheld all sorts of things from Kensei-san. "Would you mind writing down your name then?"

Those fathomless, emerald green eyes hooded just the slightest bit more, and by the clenching and slight hunching over of his small frame, the designer knew that there were some bad memories that dealt with others speaking his name. Knowing that feeling, he didn't pressure the other into telling him again as he went about making the tea and passing the cup over to the younger with a warning that the cup was hot and exited the room remembering the need to cloth the child in those fabrics he'd chosen.

_This gives me something to do for the next 15 minutes or so, _he thought as he cut, measured – guess-timating – and pressed the materials, getting ready to do a quick job of it.

If there was one thing he knew how to work with, it was making things with his hands.

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Unsure of what he should do with the cup once he'd emptied it of its soothing, warm and soft interior, he decided that this Hisagi Shuuhei wouldn't mind his getting himself another cup, as it settled his tight stomach and made his eyes droop sleepily. So far, all he'd sensed from the man was genuine concern, and some hesitant enjoyment of his company. It was painfully obvious that the man was used to being alone, and even awkward with the situation of having company in his large, spacious home. The kitchen in which he sat was sparsely decorated, several interesting – some even amusing – works of art, both sculpted and canvas were scattered half-hazard around the cooking area, as well as the rest of the home. The base colors of his furnishings a silvery gray and a smoky, aged brown-beige. There was little in the way of furniture but for a comfortable looking couch and a small living room table that had several random sketchpads upon it.

To the boy, it looked very unlived in, but that was only because it was missing a key component.

Someone to actually _live _in it.

Taking a sip of his tea once again, the boy snuggled father into the blanket-sized towel, glad for his smaller stature even as he was beginning to feels the dregs of awkward at being naked amidst the unfamiliar territory. The man had been gone for nearly 20 minutes now, and the scarred child couldn't be sure of when the man would return or if he would be allowed to again crawl back into the man's comfortable bed and beneath those marvelous comforters that gave him such warmth…

"So, what do you think?" startled out of his dreaming, sleepy emerald eyes blinked up at the designer in the doorway as he held up the clothing he'd apparently been making.

A glowing white shirt with silvery buttons, long sleeves, and collar that could be buttoned up over the throat if he so wished was lined with that shimmery green he'd seen before, and soft black slacks with that shifting gray somehow almost _infused _into them caused his eyes to widen.

_He made me clothes, _he thought in wonder, feeling his eyes widen and his mouth drop open in wonder, not even noticing that his eyes were watering a bit and he'd set down his cup. _He made me clothes. _

"Do you not like them?" the uncertainty in that kind, deeper toned voice snapped the scarred boy from his revelry. "I could change them…"

Shaking his head slightly, the boy beckoned the other to him with a slight tilting of his head, glad when the man approached him without hesitation.

Slowly, he began to point to the tea jars, and once he knew that the other was paying close attention to what he was doing, he began again.

U… L… Q… U… I… O… R… R… A.

"Ah," the slight catch in the man's breath drew after he'd finished spelling his name with the letters on the labeled tea jars caused the boy to look up inquiringly. "Well, I guess you like them."

Nodding, he was pleased, but confused by the soft affectionate smile on the other's kind, weary features, and found himself peculiarly relieved when the other leaned back slightly; he'd gotten rather close during the giving of Ulquiorra's name.

"These," Hisagi Shuuhei started, smile still in place as he held out the clothing. "Ulquiorra-kun, are yours."

_Mine._

His throat tightened at the thought, an odd feeling growing in his chest.

_Mine._

MEMEMEME

I'm thinking about whether or not to make this into a two-shot, so just let me know what ya'll think.


	2. Coming Home

^_^ enjoy! Thanks and love to _Alrye _for her constant encouragement and enjoyment of my work! Especially since she _tells_ me that she enjoys it. -_-

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When the boy – _Ulquiorra_, he reminded himself with a watery smile – went into the other room to change, it gave him time he needed to compose himself again and wipe his watery eyes so that he didn't look pathetic when the green eyed boy came back into the kitchen or when that unfamiliar doctor entered his home. The designer let himself take a steadying breath and enjoy the pleasant warmth that expanded in his chest, the release of tension, reminding himself that he didn't have the time to think in such a constant, different setting, trying to sooth his frazzling nerves. Taking a deep breath through his nose and closing his eyes for a moment, restraining the intense emotions that wished to pour forth into a most unsuitable act that would likely involve violence towards whomever it was that'd harmed the child, he started the motion towards the living room.

_Ulquiorra_, the tattooed man thought, pondering on the name. _It sounds foreign. _

Taking another deep breath, he started set about to put away all of the tea leaves, organizing them with the distant eye for detail that he unconsciously put into practice in the majority of his daily life.

His foster brother would always smile whenever he entered the designer's kitchen and saw the jars, all lined up in order; color coded to look inviting to the eye.

On picking up the Honey-Mint jar, his thoughts, as well as his gaze, flickered to the picture next to the telephone cradle, examining the five figures, three whom looked uncomfortable within the family setting, but he had always felt out of place amongst the entirety of those whom he considered family. While it was rather easy for Hisagi to spend time with both Ichinose Maki – his foster brother's best friend – and Kaien, he had always found it difficult to stay in the same room as those two when Kensei-san was in the room as well. That much testosterone in one room felt like it could smother him and tear him apart at the same time. It was challenging enough to be around Mashiro Kuna – his foster mother – as she was a challenge in and of herself.

Still, he cared for them, more than he cared to admit.

_Maybe I should call Kensei-san and tell him about Ulquiorra-kun? _He played with the idea before discarding it. If he called him, it'd just be the designer calling the 9th precinct taicho, not son calling father for advice; he'd wait a while before calling the severe man.

The sound of whispering cloth caught his ear and the coal-gray eyed man turned his gaze from that of his makeshift family, to that of the thin boy with the tiredly drooping eyes and the hesitant tilt to his head, hands folded demurely in front of him, fingers playing with the soft hem of his shirt. The soft white linen was buttoned all the way up, every seashell button slid through the holes to glimmer softly in the light, the collar hugging his neck in a comfortable seeming manner. His black, shifting pants were just long enough for him, stopping just before the hem could trail on the floor and wear through, as it wasn't the strongest of fabric, one of convenience and aesthetic appeal rather than practicality. This ensemble as a whole seemed to fit him well enough, though there was spare room where one would normally have weight, but Hisagi was certain that the other would grow into them with time.

"Ah, Ulquiorra-kun," the corners of the tattooed man's lips turned up at the shy sight before him, and he couldn't help but admire his own handiwork slightly, in a way he hadn't done in quite a while; the more he enjoyed making something , the more he appreciated his own work. "Would you like something to eat? I'm pretty sure I can scrounge up something passable."

The Nod.

As he rummaged through his refrigerator – which bore only the basic necessities, as well as knickknacks for the occasional guest that managed to pop up out of the blue – he decided that the only thing he could make would most likely be an omelet and some toast. Rather bland, but he figured that the child wouldn't complain, no matter how much the thought of giving him something so base curdled his gut, or made his hands shake with distaste.

"How does an omelet sound, Ulquirra-kun?" tilting his head to catch the slight furrowing of the boy's brow, and a realization once that frown deepened, the lack of understanding registering within his coal gaze.

Had he never…?

"Ah, well, I'm not a very good cook, so… It should at least be edible," there was a pulsing heat in his chest at the thought that this scarred child had never eaten something as common as an omelet before. "Can't say much for what it'll taste like though."

While Hisagi set about whipping a couple of eggs, and pulling out the spices that he had to throw in – courtesy of Kaien, again – the small, blank eyed child sat himself in his previous seat, running his now hidden hands over the silky softness of the material that he'd been given, eyes softening with the feel of the gentle fabric. The whisk felt ridiculously unfamiliar in the designer's hands, yet steadying at the same time. He had someone to cook for, as he hadn't had since the times when he'd lived in the Muguruma household; they would have individual days where they'd have to cook, and his had always been Sundays, with the occasional Tuesday thrown in. As his right hand flicked the whisk in the bowl, steadying the bowl with his hip, he reached his left over into the breadbox on the counter, pulling out the wheat bread for some toast, and considering the options for what he had to put on it for the quiet boy.

Effectively multitasking, and concocting with the thought of feeding the boy something he might show that pleased expression for, the one that had a chance of devastating the elder, the weary man didn't notice the hollow eyed child's study of him.

If he had seen he wouldn't have been able to let the child go, as he was contemplating.

It was too… pleading.

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_He's kind, _he silently considered as his eyes slowly trailed over the man's thin, wiry physique. _He's more nervous than I am, as well._

Hisagi Shuuhei seemed like the kind of man who wasn't suited to being alone, forgetting to take care of himself in his need to accommodate others. This fact was so blatantly obvious, and so very foreign to the scarred, hollow eyed boy. Ulquiorra himself was rather self-sufficient, he knew, especially for someone his age, but as he observed the tall, lean man before him, he found himself wondering if it would be a miscalculation to want to stay here, with the one who'd given him something of his own. Tilting his head to the side, he vaguely felt the soft caress of his own dark locks against his pale, scarred features, emerald eyes hazy and sleepy, mouth relaxed as if he were about to speak, only knowing that he would most likely never find that part of himself again. Truly, he had never wanted to speak with someone as much as he wanted to this man, to _learn_ of him.

As the boy watched, the man gave the spices in his hands a dubious look before focusing on Ulquiorra, expression curious.

"Would you like a sweet or regular omelet?" was the hesitant query.

There was something sad and warm in the man's eyes, even more so than before. Previously, his eyes had held a vacant, directionless listlessness, a lonely resignation that stated that he just couldn't fight against the weight of the world anymore, that he just didn't find it worth it to feel directly for something, but now…

He felt for Ulquiorra, even if the boy was uncertain as to whether it was pity, the man _felt_ something for him, not at him.

A moment was given to consideration. _Sweet?_ He didn't particularly know the difference, only having read about it, and the resulting difference in taste was rather startling. Having chosen the tea that had the most affectionate writing on the label, he figured that this taste must be similar, if the books that told of the flavor had any bases in fact. He wasn't quite sure he was ready for something so different as of yet, though, and the emerald eyed boy tilted his head in consideration before he shook his head in negation.

"Not sweet?"

He nodded, blinking at that small smile the action produced, similar to the previous one. Why did it please the man when he made that gesture? He puzzled over this for a while as he smelled the buttery, slightly sulfurous scent of this _omelet_ that the slim designer was cooking up, and the dry, warm smell of the bread that'd been pushed into that toaster oven before just deciding that the reason for the smile wasn't that important. The action, however, he liked. The effect it had on the plains of the kind man's sharp, harried features was… soothing. He may have to attempt it later, alone with something reflective, to see exactly how the practice was done. Expressions had always been hard for the scarred boy to emulate, as he had a rather puzzling lack of understanding when it came to the majority of emotions, only knowing the definite labels of those that had a negative association, as he'd been surrounded by them during his short life.

Blinking and giving in to a little shiver of tiredness, he startled a bit when he heard the light clack and felt the soft heat coming off of the yellow, folded creation before him, tiny sprinklings of pepper and paprika apparent within the golden creation. Beside the fluffy, aureate concoction, one that had the most intriguing, unnamable, almost acrid smell to it, were two lightly browned, pieces of toast with a light coating of butter on one, and a light coating of margarine on the other, as the man hadn't been quite sure which the boy would prefer. A ridged paper napkin with tiny, pressed out flowers was set next to the plate and a new cup of that marvelously warm, and smooth tea that made his tongue hum happily. He had a moment of surprise, as he'd not seen the other prepare a new pot, or remove the jar. Still, he couldn't fault the heavy scent that signified that this was indeed the tea that he'd chosen before.

"It's most appropriate to eat this type of omelet with Western utensils," dark eyes were warm as the nimble fingered man set a fork and butter knife with a bamboo stalk pattern before the boy – his speech oddly archaic, as if he were quoting someone - settling a small, fond expression on his tattooed features. "Or, at least, that's what I was told."

Slowly reaching forward, his small, scarred hands paused for a moment over the utensils as he mentally went over how the man's hands had curved around the Western tools, glancing up at the black haired designer as the other took a step back and started to wash the small, stainless steel frying pan that he'd used to prepare the omelet. It would appear that the man was expecting him to eat it, and the silent boy could admit that he wished to try it as it was just so… _yellow_. Cutting the soft – honestly, it was like nothing he'd ever had to fight the consistency of – yielding bit of kitcheners art, stopping just before the knife hit the plate, he lifted the speared fluffy foodstuff to his mouth. Gaze flickering over to the man who was now drying the pan, before he put the strange golden egg into his mouth and involuntarily making a small noise of pleasant surprise.

It was _warm, soft, _and_ fluffy. _But most importantly, it wasn't _too much_.

As his eyes were focused on the miraculous concoction sitting on the silver lined midnight blue plate with delicate filigree depicting what could either be wind or waves out of that thin, moon-white, gleaming metal. The soft exhalation from the designer's lips was slightly unsteady, causing the boy to look up sharply, only to see that the other was leaning against the counter in front of the sink, head bowed just the slightest bit as one hand shadowed his eyes momentarily – it didn't slip passed the boy that that hand was trembling slightly – and the other hand was tightly grasping the counter on which he leaned, the lines of his lean muscled arms standing out in clear relief beneath pale, shadowed olive skin.

_Ah, _was all he could think, eyes widening as he wondered whether he'd done something wrong, and what exactly it was. _Ah._

After a moment, the kind, warm man took a deep breath, dropping the hand that had covered his eyes and staring at the small collection of gifted, uselessly pretty dishes in rather calming lavender purple with tiny flowers and whirlpools decorating the unblemished surface. They looked like what they were; an ornamental, overpriced work of art.

He hadn't even paid for them.

Just as those tiny hands started to tremble, the terrified grief at the thought that this warm man was upset with him in some way, the Hisagi Shuuhei tilted his head over his shoulder and gave him the most helplessly lost, affectionate look, lips curved just the slightest bit, and coal dark eyes moist.

"If you like that, wait until you try my Tamagoyaki, Ulquiorra-kun," that smooth, careful voice was soft, just the same as it'd been when he'd first spoken to him. "It's much more palatable."

_"Wait until you try my Tamagoyaki, Ulquiorra-kun."_

_Wait… Wait… He… I – _moisture came unbidden to those hollow emerald orbs as the meaning behind those words registered, and he felt his grip on the fork go lax, and he had to force himself to place it gently against the pretty plate.

_He isn't going to make me leave. I – I didn't do anything wrong._

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_Kensei-san is going to have something to say about _this_, I'm sure._ There was no helping it though. Maybe it was due to the fact that he had been so alone – _felt_ so alone – for so long, that the slightest sign of appreciation for his existence drew him in like a starving fish on a line of meager bait, but…

That _look_.

The slightly curious expression on those calm, half-bored, half-asleep features had made the man hold his breath as the scarred boy examined his cooking, probably curious as to how exactly he was supposed to eat it; he'd seen the other's hesitance as he placed his hands on the unfamiliar utensils. The placement of those tiny hands had been so precise and careful, as if he were afraid to cause the metal any injury that the heated ball in his chest expanded and contracted momentarily before settling behind his breastbone to simmer and freeze. A slight struggle with figuring how to cut the omelet had put a tiny crease of concentration on the pale, scarred features before he'd taken the concoction to his tiny lips, and out of the corner of his eye he had caught it, that expression that had sent a dizzy sensation through his body.

Complete and utter euphoria.

Just as he'd predicted, the effects were devastating.

Pale cheeks had warm to a healthy pink, eyes closed and jaw rotating ever so carefully, as if to fully savor the taste, as if this were the last thing he'd ever eat, and he had to make the most of it. Or the first thing he'd eaten and he didn't know if he'd ever get another taste. Head tilted to the side just the slightest bit, the boy released a sound of utter contentment, pure adulation. It had been soft, and secret, and completely reflexive.

It had been beautiful.

There was no way that this man, this lonely self of his, the one known as Hisagi Shuuhei, could exist without this tiny, hesitant, bruised life.

He wouldn't remember how.

Staring into those now-watery orbs of deep beryl, he felt the tenseness wash out of his body in a rush that left him near exhausted and elated at the same time.

Until the buzzer to his floor went off, startling both of them, and causing Ulquiorra-kun to flinch and sink in on himself, expression flowing again into bored, disinterested stone.

"Ah, gomen, Ulquiorra-kun," he murmured, taking slow, measured steps around the kitchen island, giving the boy some space as he moved passed the small body so as not to startle him further. "I'll take care of this, you continue to eat that. I'm sorry that I don't have all that I need for the Tamagoyaki, my brother has the makiyakinabe, and I haven't worked up to buying another."

_Hadn't needed to._

Bare feet sliding easily across the smooth, stylish carpet as he made his way to the door sent tickles of warmth up through his skin and made his bones ache slightly, giving him a moment of pause to turn up the heat in the apartment, knowing that if he were this cold, then Ulquiorra-kun would most assuredly be feeling the chill of the lonely, artistic apartment. It wasn't as if he couldn't afford it; if there were one thing he had in excess, it was money.

When he reached the oak-brown door and slid his hand over the dirty grey-silver door handle, he peeked out the peephole and blinked at the blinding flash of pink he could see on the other side of the door. Brows screwing together, he had a flash of foresight, one that was saying that he definitely wasn't going to like this man; he was too… blatant.

He opened the door and took in the shockingly feminine features and disposition of the man before him with an internal wince, hoping that he wasn't going to be as flamboyant as his appearances broadcasted, but knowing that there was little hope of this. White rimmed glasses sat over the man's burnt orange eyes – a most unsettling and unhealthy seeming color – and his skin was care-product smooth, with the near unnatural glow he'd come across with some of the models he'd interviewed for his line. Needless to say he never actually _picked_ such people; they were trying far too hard, in his opinion, and his choices hadn't proved wrong so far. His clothes were certainly not from a line he was familiar with, and even though they were rather… odd, he couldn't fault the clean lines, or the symmetry the posed on the man's slim, agile body. All white with a high neck and long slim sleeved business-pleasure-esque mix, and a pair of clean lined white suite pants with shiny dress shoes.

There was a white and black back in his hand, one that had the typical appearance of a medical bag from the early 1900's, almost pumpkin shaped from a frontal view, but rounded overall.

"Ah, you must me Szayel-san," he managed, barely noting the man's nod of ascent.

"Hisagi Shuuhei, I presume?" the voice was a high tenor, cheery and inquisitive, burnt orange eyes half lidded and head tilted to the side as he studied the designer. "You have someone for me to examine, yes?"

"Hai, if you wouldn't mind waiting inside for a moment," stepping back he allowed the effeminate man to pass him and closed the door behind him, feeling his stomach stirring with nausea at the thought of letting this odd man near the child when he'd only just started to get used to his own presence. "I'll only be a moment."

Seating the eclectic man, Hisagi quickly moved towards the kitchen again, pleasantly surprised to find that the omelet that had previously been before the boy was now gone, and that the margarine coated piece of wheat toast was mostly gone, whilst the butter topped had a single bite taken out of it. The boy sat, curiously studying the room in which he sat. From the angle at which he approached the other, he could clearly see the child's fingers fiddling with the soft fabric that adorned him, first curling into the cloth, then smoothing it down over his thin stomach and hips. _Ah, _he thought, a smile springing delicately to his lips, despite his previous unease. _So that's what he was doing before._

"Was the butter too rich for you?" he queried, slowing his approach and giving the child a wide berth as he rounded the island and grabbing the tea pot and a cup from the cupboard. He poured himself a share and took a deep breath of the vapors, glad when his jittery stomach calmed and his chest loosened some more at the familiarity of it. "I thought you should try both spreads, I hope you don't mind."

Turning to face the other again, he caught the oddest expression of bemusement, before the thin, battered boy tilted his head slightly and affectively smoothed his features as he regarded the designer who took a sip of his nicely warmed tea; really, the ability to retain heat of the brass teapot was with the cost. Apparently Yumichika knew more about kitchenware than he'd originally assumed; he'd been dragged on a shopping spree with his colleague – who mostly focused on the makeup and shoes department of Hisagi's line – and ended up buying the teapot at the man's insistence, as well as a pair of ridiculously expensive, comfortable dress shoes.

Ulquiorra reached both hands out and took a hold of his mostly full, smooth white ceramic tea cup, slipping the pinky of his right hand beneath the cup and gripping it with both hands, fingers splayed together and apart, rather than drinking modernly or traditionally he drank like what he was, a kid. This sight soothed the hurting, quiet anger even more than the warmth of the tea in his hand. There were some points where this boy could still react according to his age, and apparently drinking tea was one of them.

The silent child regarded him after setting down his now empty cup – which caused Hisagi to raise a brow in amusement at the rate the other had drained it – before silently pushing his cup towards the man, and subsequently, the teapot. Chuckling lightly, he did as the boy had asked and refilled the cup, waiting a moment as the scarred youth took a light breath, mimicking his earlier action, and absorbed the heat of the sweet, minty liquid within. They'd been together for a matter of hours, and already the fragile boy was copying his habits.

It was as endearing as it was sad.

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Hisagi Shuuhei was being indecisive about something, he was hesitating.

As he sat, feeling the slight sting of the heat against his palms, and the wonderful ache in his bones from said heat, he pondered on what the man could be so unsure of. The hesitant, helpless affection he directed in the sleepy child's direction was the same, and a bit more pronounced after the initial announcement that the man had subtly made towards the matter of where the green eyed boy would go from here. Still, he could see nervousness within those warm, narrow eyes and the slight drawing of his brows that signaled he was unhappy with something. Stuffing down the instant thought that maybe _he _was the one who'd upset the other – he couldn't jump to conclusions, the man had already proven this with his previous reaction – he made a surprisingly accurate guess.

It most likely had something to do with the man in the other room.

Even as he'd sat there eating, unable to see the interaction, he wasn't deaf, and had extremely keen hearing, something ingrained in him for survival.

Having surmised this much, it didn't surprise him when the gentle man spoke, voice halting and soft.

"Uno, Ulquiorra-kun, I was wondering…" blinking and leaning his forearms on the countertop at which he sat, the boy set his regard fully on the other, emerald eyes locking with coal gray. "There's a doctor here who would like to examine you, and make sure that there isn't any serious damage. Something that I missed."

Silence.

The man before him sighed as the beryl eyed boy stiffened at the mention of a _doctor_. Those weren't people, they were _monsters_.

"Someone I've trusted with my life," the other murmured, causing green eyes to soften, even as the man's own were locked onto the cup in his hand. "She trusts this man to help you, and I'm hoping that you can trust me just enough to know that I won't let him do anything you don't want."

That settled it then, if he were going to put it that way.

He couldn't see himself distrusting the man now, after all that he'd done for him, and all that he hadn't done _to_ him.

When the steady, careful designer lifts his gaze to the small boy, he receives the slight nod of ascent that the child had grown accustomed to using in regards to the man, even with only being in his acquaintance for such a short amount of time. Hisagi released a relieved breath and gave Ulquiorra that affectionate, helpless smile from before, and the green eyed boy was quite certain that everything was going to be alright.

He would define his own version of trust, with this man.

So he slid from his seat, setting down his cup only to be told by the coal eyed man that he was welcome to take it with him to the other room, even as he himself took his own beverage with him, leading the way into an area of the house that the boy had yet to venture forth into. The boy paused a moment on catching sight of the extremely _white_ appearance of the man before him, before sidling behind his savior, keeping him between himself and the pink haired doctor with curiosity in his burnt orange eyes. Even though the trust he had in the man was fragile and tentative, this new person had nothing that would hint at the kind of personality or temperament that the boy could discern as comforting or stable in the least, that analytical gaze was too… _familiar_ to him. He knew people who had looked at him like that, like he was something to dissect, a mystery that could be solved by the piercing of his flesh.

He didn't want that.

"Ul – um," the designer paused after he sat on the love seat opposite the couch, the boy curled up next to him, tiny pale feet hidden beneath his legs as he sat on his knees, unsure. "Would you mind my telling Szayel-san your name?"

Joints aching slightly at the uncomfortable position his body was in, due to his own stubborn unease with the unknown man before him, he tilted his head the slightest bit to the side as he considered the strange man, who had yet to speak, then turned his gaze to that of Hisagi Shuuhei. Those kind dark eyes were studying him with worry and earnestness, and he listed off the reasons he had come to like this man; he was kind, he was constant, he was shy, he hadn't _touched_ or _taken_, he had cleaned him, clothed him – given him something of his _own_ – and fed him, but most importantly, he was _warm_.

For these reasons he nodded his ascent, enjoying the relief amongst the worry in the dark gaze, even as he smoothed his small trembling hand over the soft material that was now his thanks to this generous and selfless man, the other clutching to the warmth of the ceramic.

"Szayel-san, this is Ulquiorra-kun."

"Ah, it's very nice to meet you, Ulquiorra-kun," the smile and raised brow the pink haired man shot at him gave the boy a shocking amount of relief as instinct told him one thing; this man had no interest in young boys. "Would you mind if I gave you an examination?" a frown of discomfort flittered over his features unbidden at the suggestion. "Of course, Hisagi-san could be present if you wish, I'll not deny you of him."

Maybe this guy wasn't so bad.

Feeling the small, precise stitching at the hem of the white shirt with the tips of his warmed right fingers and lifting his gaze to his savior anew, he gave a small nod again, feeling warmth spread through him at the smile he received for the action. Taking a sip of his tea, he felt his eyes go even sleepier for a moment as the thick heat shivered down his throat and into his stomach to settle the queasiness of his unease at undressing before the man. Szayel, on the other hand, was opening his bag and setting out reflex testing tools, throat swabs and disinfectants, he glanced up at Hisagi before taking out the small rolled up kit he kept with him for blood withdrawals.

Because _normal_ doctors carried around emergency equipment like this, of course.

69696969

"Here, Ulquiorra-kun, I'll take your tea," the designer murmured, holding out his hand, only to be shocked stiff as, instead of a ceramic tea cup, a small, cool, trembling hand slid into his.

The pale, scarred child wriggled his feet out from under himself and slowly set his cup on the glass table in front of the love seat on which they sat, his gaze staying locked onto the cup before him, his tiny hand gripping the larger, finely muscled one of the designer tightly. Even as the other shaking hand moved up to the buttons on his shirt, he couldn't help but feel his heart wrench at the complete, focused determination within those aching beryl eyes as well as the sharp fear that Ulquiorra-kun seemed to be smothering more and more the tighter he gripped the coal eyed man's hand.

It hurt, this strength.

So whilst Szayel examined and took note of every bruise, ever scar and scrape, the designer held onto that hand, his gaze locked onto that uncertain expression, never once deviating from the tense visage of the boy whom he'd taken home with him off the icy streets the night prior. Every question the eclectic doctor asked was answered after a moment's internal struggle, then there would be the slightest nod or shake of his head, the action taking so long, and his small fingers gripping so tight with each answer, that the man was forced to struggle with the tight ball of loathing, pushing it down and away where the child would never have to see it. If the green eyed boy ever saw what he felt for whomever it was that'd done these things to him, hurting and molding the child into something so distant and careful, he doubted that he would want to hold his hand like this, or accept anything that the designer would give him.

"Would you mind turning around, Ulquiorra-kun?" the pink haired doctor questioned, throwing a glance at the designer who had a hard to interpret expression of bemusement on his lean, attractive features. "I need to look at your back."

Ulquiorra froze, stiffening and tightening his grip until burning pain shot through the designers knuckles, his hollow emerald eyes wide as he locked gazes with the weary, coal eyed man, features an unhealthy pallor in his panic.

"What do you need me to do, Ulquiorra-kun?" he heard passing from between his lips, soft and gentle.

Slowly, so slowly that he almost couldn't tell that it was happening, the child relaxed his tense features as well as his grip on the designer's hand, just enough for him to slid his opposing hand in the others previous place, these fingers chilly as the others hadn't been, as the boy's left hand had been warmed by the coal eyed man's grip. Ulquiorra tugged on his hand lightly so that Hisagi moved with him as he turned and gave the doctor his back, the designer ending up having to situate himself on the sofa cushions in front of the hollow green eyed boy, the hand he'd just released coming up to take his hand again as those chillingly old, empty eyes fixed in his scarred features.

He was intensely aware of the scars and bruises that dotted and marred the pale flesh before him, and unlike the men who Hisagi was sure had abused and used this child, he felt no satisfaction or arousal at the sight, only fury, and a deep sadness, one filled with understanding.

There was no way he could let something happen to shatter the tentative trust that had grown between them, no chance of his giving the child up to someone he couldn't know for certain would take care of him and love him in the way a parent _should_.

"Don't worry Ulquiorra-kun, I won't let anything happen to you," he murmured, stroking the slightly trembling knuckles with his thumbs, feeling his own innate tension loosen when the tense visage before him relaxed, emerald eyes soft and hesitant in their regard of the designer before them. "I'll protect you."

Soft, thinned lips relaxed and the scarred child mouthed his words back at him, keeping his emerald gaze fixed on that of the coal eyed designer.

04040404

"_I'll protect you."_

It was hard to wrap his mind around those words, the echo familiarity pulsing in recent, foggy memory, like the last words that the older boy who'd helped him run from Aizen-sama and Ichimaru-sama had said to him, and those words had been desperate and filled with grief as the other tended to his most recent injuries from those that _touched_ him. Those aquamarine eyes had been wide and broken, completely opposite of the quite determination that filled the narrow dark eyes before him, they had been slightly bloodshot from nerves and drugs, not bruised from tiredness.

_"I'll help you."_

_ "I'll protect you."_

He like this man's words better, he liked the notion that he wasn't alone, and that if he needed something, he wouldn't have to do it by himself, or risk himself and another. Someone would actually do the hard things _for _him. It was so new, so soft and perfect. It was like the dream he'd never dared to have had come true.

Tightening the grip he had on the designer's hands, he let his watering beryl eyes fall shut, falling into that tentative, new thing called trust and affection.

Loneliness, he now had a definition to this word… but no longer, now he was part of something, part of someone, he was –

"Ulquiorra-kun," a careful thumb stroked over the back of his knuckles, there was a worried, gentle smile behind his words. "It's almost over, Ulquiorra-kun. Once we're done here, you can take a nap, and once you wake up, we'll make you more clothes. After this, _you _choose what you want to do."

Taking a shuddering breath, he kept as still as possible for his new Hisagi-san and the strange doctor.

If he did, maybe the coal eyed man really _would _keep him.

After several minutes had passed, the sound of his pen flying over paper dwindling as he took notes and carefully examined ribs, spine, and neck with clinical, business-like hands, Szayel said "Alright Ulquiorra-kun, you may get dressed again."

Designer and child let out matching sighs of relief, both moving to cover the scarred, pale skin and skinny, unhealthy build with the gifted clothes, the boy shaking and trembling throughout. Once clothed again, the hollow eyed boy threw himself at the tattooed man, wrapping spindly arms around the other's tense neck, burying his teary eyed face against the leanly muscled shoulder of his Hisagi-san. It was difficult, but he shoved aside the panic that welled up within his thin chest, his heartbeat echoing in triple-time, and his whole body trembling with fears of the past, and the fears of present rejection or pain. Those arms coming up around him oh-so carefully made him gasp a dry sob and curl as tightly as he could to the finely muscled chest of his savior.

It was so _warm_.

69696969 _Several days later… _

"Uh, iya, we're not looking for anything like that. We want the – uh," he glanced to the color display on the screen at the dark gold Ulquiorra-kun was pointing at, brows rising as he took in the display. "The Metallic Gold. Yes, arigatou."

Hanging up he gave the very straightforward, if startlingly tactile addition to his life a wry look, which was countered with curious, tempered joy in hesitant emerald eyes.

"You really like yellow, don't you?"

The Nod.

"Well, now that we have the paint for your room settled, why don't we work on the furnishing?"

The Nod and a tiny, hopeful smile.

"Okay," pulling up his electronic drawing pad and stencil. "Just point out what you like and don't like as I go along, alright?"

Pressing up against his side and causing the tattooed – no longer quite so lonely – man to lift his right arm to let the boy snuggle under his arm in an awkward, almost uncomfortable position to watch the man work with the fascination that he'd demonstrated when watching the man over the time he'd been staying with the bemused man. The designer was pretty sure that he was going to be teaching the boy some minor points to drawing as well as buying more art supplies, a smaller, less expensive set to put away with his own. The thought was mildly heartwarming. He was sure that the tentative decorating he'd done over the years was going to be completely renovated and situated in such a way that it demonstrated both of their tastes thanks to his mildly OCD now adoptive son.

Due to the concentration both were exhibiting towards the decoration of the boy's very own room – a prospect that Ulquiorra-kun found not a little awe-inspiring – they didn't notice the entrance of someone into the room until they were standing right in front of the pair.

"Well, this is a surprise," Kaien's voice was wry and a little confused as he stared at his little brother and the pale child who flinched and curled into his shy adoptive sibling for _protection _from _him_; this was a situation he'd never thought he'd encounter, where a child was afraid of _him _rather than unnerved by his otouto's scars and tattoos. It was oddly reassuring. "Out of all of us I was sure that either Maki or I would have an illegitimate child first."

"Kaien!" the designer exclaimed, setting down his pad to wrap his arms around the stiff child in comfort. "What in the world are you doing here?"

An arched brow caused the younger man to flush lightly over the bridge of his tattooed nose.

"It's Thursday, space-case," he reminded.

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'Oh'."

Shifting so that he could peek over at the man whom he vaguely recognized from the family photos sparsely scattered around the airy flat, he relaxed as he took in the bemused expression on handsome, kind features and shaggy dark hair reminiscent of his Hisagi-san's. He was approximately the same height as the designer as well, his build fuller and less angular than the tattooed man, but relaxed and comfortable, less threatening that someone smaller that Ulquiorra-kun knew of.

"Well, um," he'd completely forgotten to tell his family what was going on. "Oops."

"Yeah, 'Oops'."

A moment of silence encompassed them before the beryl eyed boy tugged on Hisagi's shirt and gave him and inquiring look, before The Nod.

"Well Kaien, this is Ulquiorra-kun… my son."

Was it wrong to take enjoyment from the solid thud that his elder brother made as he fell back in a darkly satisfying faint?

A small – okay, not so small – part of him didn't think so, while the rest of him shared a moment of shocked looks with the emerald eyed child, then they shared hushed, near silent laughter, the boy hiding his face in the designer's chest when the unfamiliar feelings bubbled up in his chest.

"I wonder what Kensei-san's reaction will be…" he muttered after getting a hold on himself.

04040404 _A couple weeks later…_

Laying opposite his new uncle and looking at a photo album was fun, especially when he could hear Kensei-nii grouching on the phone to someone he worked with good-naturedly, and interesting, but what he really wanted to be doing was the same thing, plus his Hisagi-san, so when he turned his head at the sound of the front door opening, there was a bright, unconscious smile on his face.

"Tadaima!" the designer called, toeing off his shoes before looking up and freezing, expression softening and a smooth smile crossing his features.

"Okairii!" was the response from Kaien-nii, and the designer's father.

As coal colored eyes met sparkling, watery beryl eyes, their thoughts coincided in that moment.

_I'm home._

MEMEMEME

Phew, _finally_. I've been writing a couple of sentences for this thing when I can't think of anything else to do, and it's finally done. Thank GOD… It was fun though, lol.


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